I come to plentyonly with nothing but
like buntinghanging the signs are
everywhere and there I find
making music from an oak-shaped sillhoette
blackbirds who're invisible
quieted then shriller when I pass belowbranch
the stranger inaballad I feel
though born to plentyonly and caught
where widerfields open I read on
you see my eye is a fieldglass
lit on a towpath as hophome-fast go species
backnforth I'll scan the line till it clicks
turning over onceagain
what's created and what's real
between thankyous for the coffee she brings
and chai I bring her laterstill
we talk maybesipwine and talk
for a tale naturally extends forever
but the day draws to a close and it's a book.
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